Chapter X: The Worst

“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” cried Bertha; and now, under pressure of this new calamity, her overstrained nerves gave way, and, sitting down on the doorstep, she burst into a passion of weeping.

“Good gracious! Is it anything very bad the matter?” asked the doctor’s housekeeper in great concern.

“Yes, yes, there has been a bad accident. Mrs. Ellis has been hurt, and she may die if we can’t get a doctor to her quickly,” sobbed Bertha, wondering however she would dare to go back and face poor distracted Tom if she did not take the doctor with her.

“Well, well, whatever is to be done!” cried the woman, holding up her hands in consternation, but not able to suggest any way out of the trouble. It was the quiet voice of Eunice Long, who had followed Bertha along the road to the doctor’s house, that settled the question of what would have to be done.

“Where has the doctor gone, Hester?” she asked, reaching out her hand to give Bertha a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“He is away to Pottle’s Bent. A man there has broke a leg, and doctor said as there was nothing pressing he’d stay over there to give him a bit of attention, because he is such a big man that his wife can’t move him, and it is so wearing to the horses to do that journey very often,” replied the woman.

“Someone must ride out to Pottle’s Bent and fetch him back at once. Twenty miles, isn’t it? Now, I wonder who has got the best horse?”

Eunice Long had taken command of the situation, and poor harassed Bertha sat on the doorstep and listened, thankful to have the dreadful responsibility lifted from her shoulders.

“Why, Silas Ford has got the best cattle in Pentland Broads; trust him for that. But whether he will be willing to ride so far for the doctor is quite another question. Myself, I should be inclined to doubt it,” said the doctor’s housekeeper in a dogmatic tone.

But Eunice Long smiled, as she said softly: “He will go, I feel sure of it. That would be a hard-hearted person who would not help a neighbour in such distress. Besides, Tom Ellis has done us good turns all round, so we are bound to do our best for him to-day. Just step over to Mr. Ford, will you, and ask him to set off at once. Tell him that Mrs. Ellis may die if the doctor is not fetched as quickly as possible.”

“Hadn’t you better go yourself? You are a deal cleverer than I am at making folks do things they don’t want to do,” said the woman.

“I can’t. I am going to take this child back to the post office and give her some breakfast, and then I am going to get Bill Humphries to drive us both out to Duck Flats in his wagon. I could not ride out there if I tried, and I guess that Miss Doyne has had enough of it for one day,” replied Eunice, in her quiet, determined fashion.

“Oh, how kind you are; you think of everything!” exclaimed Bertha, as she limped back to the post office, there to snatch a hasty breakfast, while Bill Humphries, who kept the forge, hitched a pair of particularly mettlesome horses to his wagon, in obedience to the softly uttered command of Miss Long.

“We are bound to do our best for each other,” said Eunice. “It is you that need it to-day, but it may be me to-morrow, don’t you see, and if we don’t do a good part for each other, who is going to put themselves out for us?”

“How can you leave the post office?” asked Bertha, for she knew that David Long, the brother of Eunice, was away, and Government servants cannot do as other people.

“Oh, Kitty Humphries will watch the instruments, and her mother will stand sponsor for her, and will keep the key of the safe,” answered Eunice. “I would not like to promise that Kitty won’t read all the post cards; but that is not a serious matter, because people should not put private business on post cards, and what is already public does not matter.”

At this moment Bill Humphries drove his skittish pair up to the door, and the two made haste to clamber into the wagon, while Bill’s eldest boy hung on to the heads of the horses to keep them from bolting.

“Oh, what shall I do with Pucker? Shall he be tied on behind?” asked Bertha, suddenly remembering her horse, which still stood as if it were planted in front of the post office.

“Better not; the poor old creature can’t travel as fast as my colts. I’ll send my Jim out with him this evening; he can bring over the doctor’s stuff,” said Bill Humphries; then he shouted an order to Jim to look after Pucker, and to give the old horse a good feed, to which Jim responded with a yell, as he sprang clear of the horses, which immediately started off at a tearing gallop.

“Has the other man gone for the doctor yet?” asked Bertha in a low tone, as Eunice tucked a cushion at her back to rest her a little and save her some of the jolting of the wagon.

“Silas Ford? Yes, he started before we did,” said Eunice, and Bill Humphries rumbled out a low laugh of amusement, which even the solemnity of the occasion could not prevent.

“He was mad about it, though, and he said downright flat that he wouldn’t budge, for he is behind with his seeding, and looked to about finish it to-day; but the doctor’s housekeeper told him as how Miss Long had said that he had got to go, and then he gave in as mild as a calf—ha, ha, ha!”

Bertha wondered where the joke came in, and then was amazed to find that the face of Eunice Long was scarlet with hot, distressful blushes. She turned her head quickly then, for it did not seem right to spy into matters which did not concern her, and she could not bear for Eunice to know that she had seen. How those horses did go! And with what skill Bill guided them along the rough trail through those endless stretches of ploughed land, where the green wheat was springing in straight furrows which seemed to have no end. But Bertha hardly saw the wheat. She was wondering what was happening at that lonely little house at Duck Flats. Had Grace shown any sign of consciousness yet? And how was Tom bearing the weary waiting for the help which was so long in coming?

Bill had lapsed into a sort of shamed silence after his burst of laughter about the way in which Silas Ford had been made to do his duty, while Eunice spoke no word at all, only once or twice reached out a comforting hand to pat Bertha on the arm, as if to show a sympathy that was too deep for words. Presently the house with its barns and sheds came in sight.

“She is still alive,” announced Bill suddenly, with so much relief in his tone that Bertha instantly forgave him that unseemly burst of laughter.

“How do you know?” she asked.

He pointed with his whip to two small figures scuttling to and fro before the house, which were plainly Dicky and Molly feeding the chickens and doing small chores to the best of their ability.

“See the children running out and in. Do you think Tom Ellis would let them do that if the poor mother had gone? Don’t you fret, Miss Doyne, I guess if the poor thing has lived so long she is going to get better,” he said, with the cheery optimism that was a part of his nature.

“Yes, please God, she is going to get better,” breathed Eunice; and Bertha was comforted in spite of her fears, for faith is somehow infectious, and one could not utterly despair in such company.

Tom was at the door to meet them when the wagon drew up at the house; such an unkempt, dishevelled figure he looked. “Where is the doctor?” he demanded, with fierce impatience, as his eye swept the little group in the wagon.

“On his way here by this time, if I know anything about Silas Ford and the ways of his cattle,” said Bill Humphries, as he leaped off the front of the wagon and held out his arms to lift Eunice down first. He reckoned that she was of the most use at this juncture, having had more experience in sickness than Bertha, so he put her in readiness for action first.

Tom groaned. It was dreadful to think of having to wait longer, after having waited so long already; but it was something to see Eunice Long on the scene, for it was well known that she was more clever and capable than most in sickness and trouble of all kinds.

“How is she?” asked Eunice, putting Tom aside with one hand, and stepping across the threshold, followed by Bertha.

“She is alive, and that is all I can say about it,” answered Tom, following them into the kitchen, where Grace still lay on the couch just as he had lain her down with the help of Bertha in the dawning.

Eunice stooped over her, deftly touching her here and there, while the other two looked on, and then she said, with a look at Bertha: “I think we ought to get her to bed. Is it ready for her?”

“The bed is, but the children have not been dressed yet. I will get them out of the room,” said Bertha, turning towards the bedroom, where Noll and the twins, still in a state of undress, were having a great time at a pillow fight.

She swept up an armful of little garments, seized Noll in the other arm, and, calling to the twins to follow, took them out on to the veranda, and there set Molly and Dicky to the task of clothing the three small children, active assistance being rendered by Bill Humphries, who, having a large family of his own, had learned many things by experience, although he confessed that the buttons and tapes were to the last degree bewildering to a mere man.

Inside the house Eunice and Bertha, with some help from Tom, carried Grace and laid her on her bed, then, sending him away, Eunice removed the garments one by one and anxiously searched for possible injuries. But there was not one to be seen. Grace did not even seem to have been bruised by the terrible fall, although she lay so still and motionless.

“What is it? What are you afraid of?” asked Bertha sharply, seeing the gravity had become deeper on the face of Eunice.

“It is her brain or her spine which has been injured, I fear, perhaps both,” said Eunice softly, although she might have shouted and Grace would still not have heard or understood.

“Will she get better?” asked Bertha, her parched tongue rattling against the roof of her mouth.

“If the Lord wills,” replied Eunice, in a solemn tone; but there was no ring of hopefulness in her tone now, and Bertha turned away wondering, yet did not dare to ask another question.

It was noon before the doctor came. Bill Humphries had put his horses in the barn and was doing such things about the house as Tom would have done in happier circumstances; but Tom himself was lying on the bed in the little room where Bertha slept, in such a state of collapse, that it looked as if they were going to have two invalids to care for instead of one.

A long half-hour the doctor was shut in with Grace, with only Eunice for a helper, and when he came out his face was as grave as that of Eunice had been when the injured woman was undressed. Tom was asleep, too worn out and exhausted to keep awake for the news which was like life or death to him, so there was only Bertha to hear the verdict of the doctor.

“There is some concussion of the brain, but that will probably pass off in a few hours, and Mrs. Ellis will become conscious again,” said the doctor.

Bertha’s face lightened with a flash of radiant hope. “Then do you think that she will soon be better?” she asked, with such bounding relief at her heart that she longed to shout or sing.

“That I cannot say yet,” replied the doctor, and his manner was so very grave that the riotous hope in Bertha’s heart died suddenly.

“What is it that you are afraid of? Tell me quick; I can bear it,” she said sharply; but she turned so very white that the doctor had his doubts about her ability to stand up under any more trouble just then, so he said that he would be glad of a meal if she could get him something to eat, then he would go out and lie on the straw in the barn for a couple of hours, after which he would see Mrs. Ellis again before he went away.

“But why the barn?” asked Bertha; then remembering that Tom was lying asleep in the other room, she said quickly, “I will rouse my cousin; he would not like you to be turned into the barn, I am sure.”

“I should be very angry if you did rouse him,” said the doctor, looking so fierce that Bertha quailed before him. “We have got quite enough trouble to face in this house just now without having Tom Ellis for a patient as well as his wife. It is this sleep that may save him from collapse, but he will need to sleep for hours and hours if it is going to do him any good. I have had to rest in a good many places not half so comfortable as that barn yonder, so you need not worry about me. Only, if I am not back in the house again by three o’clock, I shall be glad if you will come and call me.”

“I will do it, certainly,” she answered; then, plucking up courage, she said timidly, “but will you please tell me what is the matter with Mrs. Ellis? I have got to know sometime, and there is nothing so wearing as suspense.”

The doctor went suddenly silent, stirred his coffee with an air of impatience, as if angry at being bothered, although in reality he hated to give pain, then he said gruffly: “There is injury to the spine, and I am afraid, I am very much afraid, that she will be a helpless invalid for the remainder of her days.”